


You put the Magic in Me

by Venhedish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Dean Winchester, Breeding Kink, Case Fic, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Holidays, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Rimming, Season/Series 03, Sex Pollen, Supernatural Kink Bingo 2021, Top Sam Winchester, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:08:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29411700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venhedish/pseuds/Venhedish
Summary: “This is the weirdest thing we’ve ever done for a case,” Dean says under his breath, leaning into Sam and scouting the crowd gathered around a dozen tables inside the little café.“Dude, relax,” Sam says back, eyebrows raising at his brother’s nervous energy. “I thought this would be, like, yourthing.” He gestures vaguely to the women milling around inside. A long, vividly red banner hangs across the open french doors that lead into the space, emblazoned with the wordsThe Oolong Tea Room Presents: Lonely Hearts Club Speed Dating! Feb 11-14th!Or; in which Sam and Dean learn a thing or two about chemistry.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 26
Kudos: 171
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2021





	You put the Magic in Me

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! A fill for the Sex Pollen square on my 2021 SPN Kink Bingo board. Beta'd by [Kalutyka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalutyka).
> 
> Title from Billy Squier's [My Kinda Lover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nI33SNkIsMw).

“This is the weirdest thing we’ve ever done for a case,” Dean says under his breath, leaning into Sam and scouting the crowd gathered around a dozen tables inside the little café. He pulls at the collar of his shirt, warm and uncomfortable.

“Dude, relax,” Sam says back, eyebrows raising at his brother’s nervous energy. “I thought this would be, like, your _thing_.” He gestures vaguely to the women milling around inside. A long, vividly red banner hangs across the open french doors that lead into the space, emblazoned with the words _The Oolong Tea Room Presents: Lonely Hearts Club Speed Dating! Feb 11-14th!_ Sam, Dean, and a group of other hopeful men stand waiting on the patio for the event to begin. 

“You know,” Sam adds after a second, turning his full attention to Dean and gesturing vaguely with his hand towards the building, “like an all-you-can-eat love buffet, or something.”

It’s Dean’s turn to look incredulous. “An _all-you-can-eat love buffet_? Really, Sam?” He snorts, obviously taking offense. “I’m not an animal.” 

At that moment, a leggy brunette in a tight pink halter dress walks by them, her bare shoulder almost brushing Dean’s arm. He bites his lip and watches her saunter into the café, blinking stupidly.

“Are you _drooling?_ ” Sam asks, amusement obvious in his voice.

“Shut up.” Dean elbows him in the ribs, going up on the balls of his feet to peer around the crowd in front and follow her path inside. Several of the other guys seem to have the same idea, heads swiveling to track her as she takes a seat at a table towards the back. 

“Need a boost?” Sam asks, smirking.

“Bite me.” Dean snaps back, turning a sharp eye on his brother, all business again. “Are we even sure this is our kinda thing?”

“Sure seems like it,” Sam says, looking serious. He eyes the crowd again, easily the tallest person there, and scans the tops of all the nearby heads. “Every year, like clockwork, there’s a big baby boom in town right after Halloween.” He looks pointedly at Dean. “You do the math.”

Dean squints, and his tongue pokes out of his mouth a little in concentration. His fingers come up, ticking away the months in his head. “Okay,” he says once he gets there, “so we’ve got a bunch of babies nine months after Valentine’s; that’s not exactly surprising.”

Sam’s mouth cracks into a grin. “Well, no. But it’s more than a coincidence when seventy-five percent of those babies’ parents met for the first time at _the same speed-dating event_. This one.”

Dean raises his eyebrows and lets out a low whistle. “Wow, okay. That’s definitely freaky. But even still—say there’s a rogue cupid flying around, getting his jollies off making a bunch of strangers go baby crazy for each other. That’s not really our kinda problem, is it?”

Sam’s grin fades, and his eyebrows crease. “Well, yeah. Except, like clockwork, every year around Halloween, a newborn goes missing from the maternity ward of the local hospital.”

A look of disgust and unease crosses Dean’s face. “Great. So, what’re we thinking? Some kinda sacrifice thing?”

Sam looks uncertain and shrugs his shoulders. “I dunno, maybe. Just keep an eye out. Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day, so we don’t have much time to catch this thing in the act.”

Dean nods and looks around furtively once again. A muffled voice from inside the café calls out to signal the start of the event, and the crowd of men filters as one into the patchouli-soaked interior of the tea room, Sam and Dean trailing in last.

Dean is behind Sam as the men go from table to table in little ten-minute increments, introducing themselves and making small talk over and over again. There’s a recent graduate named Heather, then a secretary from Cleveland named Karen. Then Ashley, Elizabeth, Sarah. Dog groomer, engineer, graphic designer. It all starts to blur together after the first thirty minutes, and he feels very lucky that everyone at the event is wearing a name tag, or he’d be very confused by now. 

He can’t help feeling like he’s double-checking his brother’s work as he talks to all the women Sam’s already spoken to. He’s prickly and uncomfortable and he wants to get out of here. He feels acutely like he’s on display, letting each and every one of these women examine him under a microscope, where they can poke him with a stick and expose his many inadequacies.

One-night stands are nowhere near this much work. Why would anyone want to subject themselves to this torture? If Dean wants to talk about his feelings, he’s got Sam, and the rest of it is easier at last call with three whiskeys inside him and a girl whose name he doesn’t even know. All this romance stuff is beyond him.

That said, he _is_ looking forward to his little slice of quality time with pink-dress-girl.

Just ahead of him, Sam sits down with her, and a little pang of something like jealousy settles uncomfortably in his stomach. He sits at the table directly behind them with a mousy blonde girl who looks very tired. They make polite conversation like they’ve been doing for over an hour now, but Dean’s eyes keep shifting over to Sam and the smokin’ brunette. He watches his brother lean into her as his current “date”—Tina, according to her name tag—says something about being a nurse at the hospital. He nods along absentmindedly, barely registering her words as he watches the brunette bat her eyelashes at Sam and put her hand playfully on top of his on the table. Dean’s fists clench automatically.

He gets drawn back into the moment when he realizes Tina has asked him a question. He turns to her and her eyes are curious, a little hurt. He feels like an ass. _Fuck this whole stupid day_. “Sorry,” he says, adopting a penitent expression. “What was that?”

She stirs her drink slowly, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth. “Seems like they have good chemistry, huh?” 

“Who?” Dean says, even though he knows he’s playing dumb and she can see right through it. Her sardonic expression pushes the truth out of him. “Oh, _heh_. Yeah, I guess so,” he admits. That uncomfortable jealous feeling surges again deep down in his stomach.

“He a friend of yours?” She asks, one eyebrow raised in question. 

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” He finds himself shrinking a little under her gaze, feeling almost x-rayed. This chick is suddenly way intense. 

“Coming to speed dating together? That’s sweet,” she says; her voice is a little too saccharine, and he wonders if she’s poking fun at them. Probably. It _is_ kinda weird.

“Yeah,” he says. “You know, _bros before hos,_ and all that.” As soon as the words leave his mouth he groans inwardly, wants to smack himself in the face. _What a moron_. He feels his cheeks go red. “I mean, uh ...”

But she just laughs, a clear, bell-like sound of pure glee. It lights up her face, and Dean thinks she’s actually really pretty when she smiles. “It certainly seems that way,” she says, still laughing. Her gaze is even more intense now, and her grin has an edge to it that makes Dean shiver.

He feels hot under the collar, even more now than he did before, little beads of sweat collecting under his hairline. “What do you mean?”

She leans forward, not unlike how pink-dress-girl is leaning into his brother at the other table, lips parted seductively, running her perfectly manicured finger around the rim of her wine glass. Dean blinks; he feels _weird_ like he’s drunk, or sleep-deprived. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “Sammy couldn’t stop talking about you, Dean,” she says. “He had so much to say about how lucky he is to have you as a big brother.” Her hand reaches out, and suddenly it's on top of his. Her nails bite into his skin, sharp and dangerous.

 _His_ hand is at his gun lightning-fast, more reflex than thought. “It’s _you,_ ” he says, pointing the barrel at her belly under the table, hidden behind the drape of his jacket. 

“Don't be an idiot, Dean,” she says, and she’s so beautiful that Dean’s not sure how he could have missed it before. “That thing won’t hurt me. And besides, look around.” She drags her gaze around the room, plump bottom lip sucked into her cherry red mouth in deliberate thought. “You really wanna ruin the only shot at love half these losers will ever get?”

He grits his teeth and flexes his hand against the grip of the gun. He doesn’t put it away, but he doesn’t turn the safety off, either. “What _are_ you?” His voice is a low growl, as threatening as he can muster through the haze of arousal and confusion he’s feeling.

She laughs again, and it makes his head throb. Something hot and wild stirs deep in his belly. Her blonde hair is illuminated in a halo of perfect light, and she tilts her head to the side in dreamy confusion. Her big doe eyes blink up at him, and Dean would do anything for her: tell her every secret floating around in his head, slay her enemies, bring her the pelt of a wolf he killed with his bare hands. If only she would let him.

He fights the feeling, swallows it down, does his best to keep his head clear. 

“You mean you don’t even know? You came here to hunt and didn’t even do your research? I’m disappointed in you,” she chides. “I thought you Winchesters were supposed to be smart.” Her voice is a song echoing in his ears.

“Yeah, well, don't count us out yet, darlin’.” He grins at her, trying to buy time. He scrambles to think of a way to signal to Sam, back turned to him over her shoulder, but nothing comes. 

“You can call me Tina,” she says, pointing at the name tag on her chest, emblazoned with little hearts. “But I’ve been known by many names: Turan, Turanna, and—my personal favorite—Mistress, among others.” She winks at him, and he bites the inside of his cheek in response. 

“What do you want with these people?” he spits out.

“Oh, spare me the bleeding heart bullshit.” She rolls her eyes at him, digging her claws into the back of his hand. “This little podunk town was dying before I came along. Population dwindling, industry drying up. It’s the same sad song up and down the rust belt. Trust me—I'm doing them a favor.” 

Dean grimaces, trying not to flex the hand where her nails are drawing blood. “So, you get them all drugged up and make them screw like bunnies, and then in nine months, you come calling on one unlucky family? Why?”

She lets go of his hand and leans back in her chair, smirking. “All I ask in return is one measly baby. It’s a pittance for putting this town back on the map! Little baby boom, little lucky downtown revitalization project, little bumper crop season, and now they’re thriving!” She holds up a single finger. “All for just _one_ scrumptious morsel a year.” 

Now Dean does flick off the safety, the click of it loud enough for her to hear.

“Anyway,” she adds as if he hadn’t just raised the stakes. “I pay attention.” She taps her temple with the sharp tip of her blood-colored fingernail. “I don’t go around pairing just any old couple up; I make smart matches. I can sense it, you know. It’s all about the chemistry.” She leans towards him suddenly, sniffs the air. “The pheromones, _mmm_.”

Dean leans away from her, disgust mixing with the undercurrent of desire he’s been doing his best to stifle.

She licks her lips. “They make tastier babies when they’re compatible, you know.” Now the finger is in her mouth, the tip of her nail playfully caught between her teeth.”I always take the best of the bunch for myself.”

“You twisted bitch,” he says. “I’ll kill you.” He means it.

“Not so fast, Deany baby.” She pulls her hand from her mouth and snaps her fingers, a shocking pop of sound in the silence. Dean realizes too late that the café has been eerily still for the last few minutes. 

Suddenly, the tea house is alive with activity as couples all around the room crash together, some even falling off their chairs and onto the floor in their rush. The wet, unnerving sound of a dozen couples making out in the cramped space fills Dean’s ears. He pushes back in his chair, as far away from Tina as he can get without giving any ground. Sam and the brunette are embracing passionately across from him; he watches as her hand snakes under the collar of his brother’s shirt, hears Sam groan at her touch.

Dean’s eyes go wide and Tina turns to follow his gaze for a moment, expression pensive. “Hmm,” she muses, tongue poking out from between her parted lips.

“You know, I _was_ thinking about pairing Sammy up with Christine. I wasn't lying when I said they had chemistry.” She snaps again, and Sam and the girl separate. They both look dazed, but Sam seems to be recovering his faculties. The girl just sits there, swaying slightly. She keeps making little kissing motions with her empty mouth. 

Tina smiles just as Sam stands, knocking his chair over in his confusion. None of the other couples seem to notice. “But no. I think this will be more fun.”

Sam is a little shaky on his feet. He turns, eyes unfocused, trying to locate his brother. “Dean?!” he asks, worried and seeking guidance.

"Relax, Sammy," Tina says, rolling her eyes. “ _Jeez_ , you're both so uptight. You could learn to relax a little.”

Sam’s expression darkens when he realizes exactly what’s happening. He takes a step towards her, ready to act.

But she raises her hand and Sam stills behind her. She doesn't even bother to turn and look at him. Her eyes are on Dean. "Not so fast, Sammy.”

There’s a new noise from across the room. Dean’s head snaps toward it at the same time Sam’s does. A couple in the corner has gone from making out to clawing at each other like animals. They’re still kissing, but their teeth have too much edge. Dean watches as the girl bites her date’s lip bloody. “I can make them _too_ hungry for it if I want,” she says.

He stands in a rush, gun no longer hidden under his jacket as he points it straight at her face. Tina smirks. “Be careful, boys. I’d hate for you to be responsible for a roomful of lovers tearing each other apart."

Sam sends Dean a defeated look over her head and circles around nice and slow, hands up, until they’re both standing shoulder to shoulder across the table from her. Dean lowers the gun and the couple in the corner goes back to a more gentle brand of public indecency. He looks at Sam, wondering what the fuck they’re supposed to do now. Sam returns his gaze with a small, reassuring nod.

Tina giggles as their eyes meet, her own gaze flicking back and forth between them. She leans forward, breasts pushed invitingly together as she puts her elbows up on the table. She rests her chin in her hands, looking dreamily up at them, and sniffs the air. "Oh. _Oh my_ ," she licks her lips. “How is it that you boys get anything done? It reeks like sex between the two of you.”

"Oh, _can it_ , bitch." Dean’s reaction is knee-jerk. He tries not to pay any attention to the heat rising in his cheeks. He feels Sam take a half step back from him.

" _Tsk, tsk_. That’s no way to talk to the gal who’s gonna do the two of you a major favor.” She waggles her eyebrows at them suggestively.

"So, what?” Sam bites out, bravely wading into a minefield Dean is happy to stay far away from. “You work your magic on us and...? Then what? _We can't exactly make a baby_ , in case you didn't notice."

She shakes her head at him like she thinks he’s being stupid. "Look around you, Sammy. I’ve already got a room full of babies just waiting to stop being a twinkle in daddy's eye.” She stands, finally, and saunters around the table to them. “Really, sweetness, there isn’t anything in it for me.” She reaches out and runs a finger up Sam’s chest. He recoils, and she laughs again, letting her hand drop. “Call it charity.”

She turns to Dean and winks, cherry lips quirking. Before he can do anything, she’s pointing a set of finger guns at the both of them and shooting, making little _pew pew_ noises as she does it. 

The woozy, drunk feeling from before comes back with a vengeance. For a sick, wavering moment, Dean thinks he might actually faint. His skin is flushed and clammy, and he has to grab at the back of his chair for balance. He can feel Sam stumble sideways beside him. 

She’s blowing imaginary smoke from the barrels when the pressure behind his eyes overwhelms him. He absolutely _cannot_ keep his cool about this. So he lunges for her, unsure whether he’s gonna punch her or wring her neck when he gets his hands on her, but Sam grabs him hard by the back of the jacket. 

"Dean!" he warns, voice solid like a physical weight, bringing him back to reality. 

The couples all around them are breaking apart, looking confused, but otherwise unharmed. A dozen pairs of eyes are searching the room, meeting each other across tables and chuckling as if a quiet joke has only just passed between them. Even the S&M pair in the corner is blushing and batting their lashes as the guy dabs at the blood on his face with a napkin.

Sam’s grip on the rough fabric of Dean’s jacket changes from his back to his arm. "Let's go," he says, already pulling Dean towards the door. He can feel the current of panic running through both of them, but there’s no weird desire. None at all. He’d swear his life on it.

"We'll be back for you, bitch!" Dean calls, pointing at her with his free arm as Sam keeps tugging. The couples around the room look scandalized. A few of the tougher-looking guys stand from their chairs like they’re going to defend her honor. 

"Hopefully working out all that tension will put you in a better mood!" She calls back, giggling. She blows a kiss at them through the windows as they exit the café and walk up the street to where the Impala is parked, Sam still dragging Dean bodily by the sleeve.

❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

Back at the motel an hour later, Dean is pacing. There are fresh evergreen stakes on the table that they carved in jittery silence as soon as they got back. But now Sam is at his computer and Dean can’t sit still, boots heavy on the muddy brown carpet, muttering to himself and trying his level best to keep his heartbeat steady.

"We should go back and gank her ass right now!" he barks, all restless energy, hackles raised. He hates feeling like a sitting duck.

"Come on, dude. You know she's gone by now." Sam turns the laptop so that Dean can see it. "Anyway, I've been doing some research, and I _think_ we can just wait it out."

"Yeah?" Dean’s voice sounds so relieved it’s almost embarrassing. He leans down over Sam’s shoulder to get a better look at the screen. He doesn’t notice how good Sam’s hair smells, like that fancy sandalwood and almond conditioner he uses; he _definitely_ doesn't notice how shiny it is, or the way it brushes against the collar of his shirt when he tilts his head.

“Yeah. According to the lore, Turanna is an Etruscan fertility goddess. She’s documented throughout history as being a matchmaker, especially helping reluctant lovers come together.” He rubs at his face and leans away from Dean a little. “In the legends, it seems like the effect of her magic is strongest on people who already have a powerful unresolved desire for one another. People who’ve been put under her spell who don't want to jump each other’s bones can resist with enough willpower, but it’s only been documented a handful of times. Doesn’t seem like she makes bad matches very often.”

Dean nods and slaps Sam on the back. His palm tingles for a second, but he shakes it out and the sensation fades. This is _definitely_ a bad match. "Okay, okay. We got this! I still feel fine, just a little twitchy, but we can just … wait it out. How long, does it say?" His grin feels stretched thin on his face, skin warm. And he’s breathing kind of hard, for some reason.

Sam grimaces and looks uncomfortable. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and Dean only licks his lips because they’re chapped. "Normally, this being works its magic on couples that can produce offspring for it to harvest.” He points at a paragraph halfway down the page, and Dean notices that his hand is shaking slightly. “Here it says the effect lasts until … _impregnation_ occurs." 

Dean squirms. Sam doesn’t look much more excited about the idea than he does. At least, that’s what he _thinks_ the expression on his brother’s face is conveying.

"But for, uh, us?” Sam continues. “Best guess … 24 hours, maybe less?" His face slips into that sideways grimace that makes his dimples go all deep and crooked—the one Dean loves so much.

He takes a sudden step away from Sam’s chair and throws himself onto the bed face first. He groans into the pillow before turning over onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. 

He lays still like this for a long moment, and he starts to notice how oversensitive his skin feels, like the fabric of his henley is electrified and dragging little sparks out of him every time one of his muscles twitches. He sits up again. He turns to address Sam but finds he can’t make himself meet his brother’s eyes. He ends up talking to the wall instead, voice far louder in the tiny room than he’d meant it to be. "Well! Good thing the motel has Casa Erotica on pay per view.” His throat feels gummy and thick. It’s like he’s high, he realizes, _really_ high. He tries to power through. “You get a hankering, Sammy, you take that sweet ass of yours and lock yourself in the bathroom with your laptop. I got dibs on the tv." He grins at the horrible art deco cactus print hanging over Sam’s head like a lunatic.

Did he really just say _sweet ass_? Oh, fuck. 

He reaches for the remote and tries to pretend he did _not_ just say that, but his sleeve drags against the inside of his arm and it's like a fire alights in his nerves. He lets out a little groan that he’s absolutely helpless to stop.

He flushes hot and red all the way from his chest to his ears, and without thinking this plan through for even a second, he rips the stupid shirt off his body. The drag of it all the way off is so intense he has to bite his tongue to keep from groaning again. He throws the shirt on the floor like it’s coated in poison and the realization of the series of events that led to this moment—calling Sam's ass sweet, moaning _like that_ , and ripping his shirt off—hits him all at once. His head snaps around to look at his brother.

Sam’s eyes are wide. He’s definitely breathing a little fast, Dean thinks, considering he’s just sitting there, and his gaze keeps dropping to the floor where Dean's shirt lays and then back to Dean's face. 

" _Uh_ ,” Sam says. He reaches out and almost knocks his laptop off the table in his haste to grab it, finally breaking eye contact. “Oh, God,” he says, and he stands like his legs are spring-loaded. He’s at the bathroom door in three long strides, and Dean watches the way the muscles of his shoulders ripple under his shirt as he scrambles at the doorknob. His little brother is _so strong._

“Oh, God.” Dean mirrors.

Sam manages to get it open at last and almost lunges in. He slams the door closed behind him and Dean can hear him slump against it hard enough to make the hinges bounce.

He’s still sitting there nonplussed a moment later, remote in one hand but otherwise totally still when he hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper.

He bites back another moan, eyes wide, and turns on the TV—anything to not hear _that_. It’s tuned to the fucking Jewelry TV channel. He pushes the button to go to the pay-per-view menu, but it's not working. He tries the channel buttons: also nothing. All he can do is turn the volume up, which he does in a panic when he hears a muffled grunt from the bathroom.

He’s so fucking hard, he realizes. Like, he’s not sure he’s ever been this hard in his life. He drops the remote and shoves his hand down his jeans, suddenly desperate to deal with how horny he is. It’s like he’s sixteen again. 

He grabs his dick and his eyes almost roll back in his head with the intensity of it. There’s a woman’s voice talking about emeralds coming from somewhere far away and he’s jacking off with his pants still on like an idiot. He pulls his hand back out and hisses at the loss for the second it takes to shove his jeans down his hips before his grip is back, hot and tight and overwhelming.

He hears another quiet bang from the bathroom and his eyes jerk back into focus. He can see the shadows of Sam’s feet under the bathroom door; he must be leaning against it, still standing, laptop forgotten. Dean bites his lip, hard, and drags his eyes away. They land on the TV instead, where a pile of perfectly cut gemstones rotates on a lazy susan. The woman is still talking, but he can’t focus on what she’s saying. There’s a man’s hand in the frame with a delicate pair of tweezers. He’s picking up a bright green jewel and turning it in the light. The sleeve of his plaid shirt is visible at the edge of the screen. It’s blue and gray and it reminds him of a shirt that Sam wears. _Fuck._

He picks up the pace, slicking his hand with the steady stream of precome that leaks from the head of his cock, trying so desperately to pretend he’s not close to coming just from the thought of his brother _wearing a shirt_.

But then he’s thinking of his brother _not_ wearing a shirt and he can’t possibly deny that as a low, feral growl rips out of him. His body is on fire, tension running through him like ley lines leading straight to his dick. He wants to explode, can’t entirely believe he hasn’t come yet. It’s actually starting to hurt. 

Behind the voice of the woman on TV, he can just make out these tiny, quiet huffs of desperation coming from the bathroom. _He wants to fuck them_. The thought comes so shocking and sudden that it almost makes him laugh. But it’s true; he wants to fuck the sounds his brother is making. He grips himself more firmly, wriggling out of his jeans completely. Now he’s naked on the bed, fisting himself furiously and imagining the perfect wet mouth that’s making those needful sounds just on the other side of the door and it’s _still not enough._

And, okay. It’s _really_ starting to hurt. He takes a deep breath, slows his pace. His free hand is curled into a fist on the coverlet and he opens it, trying to relax his muscles and let himself ride this out. Frustration doesn’t help anything, but all he’s been doing for the last 10 minutes is blue-balling himself, and the pulse of how fucking bad he wants to come is sharp like a vice at the base of his spine. He sighs, breathing in heavy through his nose, and lets go of his dick.

It doesn’t really help anything, but it doesn’t make it worse, either.

He slumps back against the pillow and tries to ignore the flashes of Sam that keep going off behind his eyelids: the curve of his jaw, his long fingers, the line of his naked back after a shower. 

He realizes the sounds from the bathroom have stopped, too. He’s so hard he could scream. This can’t be good. 

A second later, so quiet he thinks he could be imagining it, he hears Sam say his name. “Dean?”

It goes straight to his cock. He _hates_ that it goes straight to his cock. 

“Yea-?” His throat is desert dry and he has a false start before coughing and trying again. “Yeah, Sammy?”

There’s an answering groan, then a thump. “Is, uh. Is it not-” His voice trails off.

“The rocket is still on the launchpad, if that’s what you mean,” Dean says through clenched teeth, feeling absolutely insane. He can’t think straight through the haze of pain and the ripple of desire that runs through him when he imagines his brother on the other side of that thin strip of particleboard, dick in his hand. “You?”

“Y-yeah,” Sam says, shaky, and the uncertainty, the plaintive need in his voice, drags Dean’s hand back to his cock of its own volition. 

He groans. “What the _fuck_ is going on, Sam?” Only _Sam_ doesn’t come out like _Sam._ It comes out like a swear, cracked and edged with desire.

“Dean?” he hears his brother respond, a hint of uncertainty laced with an undercurrent of something far darker. “It hurts,” he admits, plaintive and small.

Dean is standing before he even knows what the fuck he’s doing, brain possessing his legs to walk right over to the bathroom door. He steadies himself, plants one hand against the frame. “Yeah,” he says, voice a jagged rasp. “Me, too.” He lets his forehead fall against the wood.

He feels rather than hears his brother shift on the other side, senses the presence of him like a beacon, imagines his bare skin just inches away. Sam's voice is broken open when he says, “I think we gotta …”

Dean knows exactly what he’s suggesting and he fucking wants it, but he shakes his head against the door. “No, Sam. Come on!” He slides his hand slowly down to the base of his dick, back up. “That’s sick.” 

“Yeah,” he hears Sam pant. “Yeah, it is.” He can hear a quiet, shaky breath every time Sam thrusts into his own hand. “But I want it anyway.”

“ _Sam_ ,” he bites out, resolve crumbling faster than he can build it up again. He’s so fucking hard, so close. 

“Always have.” Sam’s whining now, and the door is shaking with the rhythm of his desire. “I’m sorry, Dean.” He sounds so fucking broken. “This is _my_ fault. I can’t resist it because I … _ah_ … because I think about you, about what you’re doing right now, about you doing it to _me_ .” Sam sounds like he’s on the verge of tears. “I’ve wanted it for years, _fuck_.”

Dean is surprised he’s still standing—his legs are shaking like every muscle supporting his weight is about to snap from the tension. He bangs his head against the door again, harder this time. He balances on the precipice for a moment, every inch of him screaming, and throws caution to the wind. He growls out loud from all the way down in his chest, takes his hand off himself long enough to grab the doorknob, and swings the whole thing wide open.

“Shit,” he says, breathless. The two of them are suddenly standing there, mirror images of each other, naked and hard, hands planted on opposite sides of the door frame, leaning into the space where the door was separating them only a moment ago.

“Shit,” Sam says back, pupils blown huge and glassy, and then he’s rushing into Dean’s space, mouth on him in an instant, his big frame dominating and powerful. They slot up against each other and Sam walks them both back towards the bed.

Every place their skin touches is a lightning rod of sensation. Sam’s mouth is hot and wet and salty from the pretzels they’d been eating as they worked earlier. Dean groans into him like it’s the only thing he's ever wanted in his whole life, and maybe it kind of is. He capitulates when his calves bump up against the bed, lets Sam push him so he goes sprawling back onto the mattress. 

He’s suddenly cold at the loss of contact, but Sam looks down at him, eyes almost black with desire, and Dean thinks it looks like Sam wants to eat him alive. He thinks he’d like that, actually, devoured entirely by his brother’s hunger. Then Sam is there again, on top of him, all over him, big hands everywhere, in his hair, running up and down his arms, wrapped all the way around to the small of his back, pulling and insistent and so fucking _strong_.

His throbbing cock can’t take it when Sam drags against him in a desperate slide, leaving a wet line of precome against Dean’s hip.

And that’s it. It’s all he fucking needs, and he comes so hard he forgets his own name. His orgasm seems to trigger Sam because he’s coming, too, just from the sight of it. It's a warm sticky mess all over Dean’s stomach and he wants to slather himself in it, wants Sam to do it again, get it inside him this time, knock him up with it.

His breath catches in his throat. What _the fuck_ is going on in his brain right now?

They’re both just laying there, breathing into the sides of each other’s faces, too afraid to move.

But Sam does, eventually, right when his weight is starting to really burn in Dean’s lungs. He slides over onto his side, facing Dean. Dean thinks about looking at him, but he can't quite bring himself to drag his eyes in that direction; shame and satisfaction color his cheeks in equal measure. His cock has softened, but Sam props himself up on one elbow and their eyes _do_ meet, and Dean feels it twitch in interest almost immediately. 

_Fuck._

“Jesus,” Sam finally says, voice low and shaky. “That was ...” He looks concerned. “Are you okay?”

Dean doesn’t entirely trust himself to speak, but the open worry in Sam's eyes makes him swallow down his fear and reach out to comfort his little brother. He rolls onto his side, mirroring Sam’s position, and he curls his palm around the side of Sam’s sweat-damp neck. He nods, finding his own certainty in the feel of Sam under his hand, and looks him right in the eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy. I’m fine.”

Sam groans, quiet and raspy. His cheeks turn a shade of pink that should be illegal, and it’s obvious he’s embarrassed. “I didn’t want this to happen, Dean. Really, I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s reaching his own hand up, covering Dean's with it in the same breath.

“It’s okay,” Dean admits. “It’s not just you.” His cock is filling again in earnest now, just feeling his brother’s skin on his skin, admitting his desire so nakedly. 

Sam leans over and kisses him, and he lets it happen, surprised by how intense his want still is. It’s sweet for a moment, just a press of the lips, but Sam shifts his body up closer, presses his cock against Dean’s thigh, and it’s all tongues again.

Sam is almost humping his leg, rolling his hips, desperate for friction. Dean half-laughs into his mouth. “Woah,” he says. “Easy, tiger.”

 _What a stupid fucking thing to say_. They both lose it, triggered somewhere primal by a memory of two boys wrestling on the floor of a dark apartment. Sam bites him hard on the lip and pushes right at the center of Dean’s chest, flipping him over onto his back in one smooth movement. He’s on top in an instant. “Now you’re just being a jerk,” he says.

Dean bucks up into him and their cocks slide together, finally. It’s like fireworks are exploding in the empty cavity of his skull where his brain used to be. “Only cause you’re a bitch,” he says, and his low groan turns into a primal, animal cry as Sam pushes down into him with the full brunt of his body weight.

“We’ve got 24 hours, Dean,” Sam growls. “That’s a long time for me to wipe that grin off your face.”

And Dean knew Sam had a dominant side, but this is .. this is _a lot_. His brother is completely in charge, and it’s doing things to Dean he wasn’t expecting, like making him want to spread himself wide open and let Sam fill him up until he can’t take anymore and … “ _That goddamn pagan bitch_ ,” he bites out.

Sam’s teeth graze the corner of his jaw. “ _Mmm_ ,” he says. “She did something to me, Dean.” He grinds again, more insistent. Dean is seeing the dawn of a new universe every time he closes his eyes. “I need to …” He slides his tongue from Dean’s jaw to the divot between his collar bones. “I _need_ to fuck you.”

Dean’s heart is racing. The TV still exists somewhere beyond the edges of the bed in a haze of things that have almost ceased to be. He hears something about carats and princess cuts and he quietly loses his mind because Sam’s words are playing on repeat inside his head louder than anything else. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, fuck, Sam.” 

Because he _needs_ to be fucked. He’s realizing exactly what she did, Turanna. She assigned them _roles_ , and he knows exactly which position he’s been slated to play. If he weren’t so out of his mind horny for his brother right now, he’d probably find the energy to be mad about it, but he’s just shaking all over, cock throbbing and wet. There’s a mess on both their bellies now, but it’s so fucking hot to be covered like this—to smell like Sam, to let the scent of their mutual need coalesce and seep into his skin.

Sam slides his tongue further down Dean’s chest until he hovers over the amulet that rests against his breastbone. He sucks it into his mouth, slow and deliberate. The bronze of it glints between his teeth as he smirks up at his brother, laying claim with his eyes and his tongue and his perfect body and his good, strong hands. 

Dean gets his own hand up, tangles it in Sam’s hair, and nods over and over, not even entirely sure what he’s agreeing to, but he’s too far gone for words. Sam lets the amulet drop back to Dean’s chest, but his devious smile stays put.

Sam grabs him hard under the armpits and drags him up the bed like he weighs nothing. He flips him over onto his stomach and the bedsprings squeak with the force of it.

“Gotta get my mouth all over you,” Sam says, panting and delirious. The next second, there’s a shift in the air behind Dean, and with literally no preamble Sam’s firm hands are spreading his ass wide. And then his mouth is there, licking a stripe from the tight grip of his balls up and over his hole, hot and wet and fucking obscene. Dean makes a noise he _knows_ he’s never made before. 

Sam laughs behind him, a devilish thing, and he licks again, slower, harder—the flat of his tongue flexing against his feverish skin. “Always wondered what you’d taste like.” Dean can hear him spit, feel it hit his skin, slick and dripping. Sam smacks his ass, hard. “So good, Dean.”

Dean’s panting like he’s run a marathon. His dick is trapped between his body and the mattress and he can’t help rutting against it, pistoning his hips while his brother keeps working him open with his tongue. And then Sam reaches up and shoves two of his fingers into Dean's mouth. “Yeah, baby,” He says. “Get ‘em wet for me.”

Dean is eager, greedy for it, slavering over his brother’s long fingers like they’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. “Good boy,” Sam says, and it’s almost too much. He bites down to stop himself from coming right there. In response, Sam gets his other hand up and pulls hard on the hair at the crown of Dean's head, both of them groaning at the pain.

Sam withdraws his fingers and Dean's mouth feels oddly empty, his tongue useless and cottony thick against his teeth. “Gonna make it so good for you,” Sam says, and then both of his wet fingers are inside Dean in one brutal slide. 

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. His burning alive from the inside out. He’s squirming against Sam’s hand, letting himself be fucked over and over by expert fingers. He doesn’t have the brain capacity left to even wonder how Sam got so good at this. 

“I wanna hear you tell me how much you want it,” Sam is saying somewhere above him, his breath coming hot and humid on the back of Dean's neck. “Tell me how long you’ve waited for me to get my hands on you.”

“God, _Sammy_ ,” he bites out, buries his face in the pillow, and lets it muffle the obscene noises that are spilling from him. There are tears in his eyes from the animal intensity of it all. “Years,” he huffs out, turning his head. “ _Always_ ,” he cries louder when Sam adds a third finger, curls them up inside him. 

“Yeah,” Sam purrs, dragging his teeth along the ridge of Dean’s shoulder. “Yeah.” He bites harder. “Gonna make you mine.”

“Fuck,” Dean grunts out. “I already am, Sammy.” And he means it. He can’t stop crying. “I need ...” He trails off, unable to articulate how badly he needs to feel Sam inside him.

“Yeah, _big brother_ . Gonna give it to you.” and Sam’s fingers are gone, replaced again by his hot mouth, so wet and filthy and driving him fucking wild. There's the sound of more spit, the bright white shock of Sam’s tongue pushing in, circling, fucking him with his mouth, and then Sam is gone. His weight leaves the bed, and the springs shake with his absence. Dean is all alone; he squirms, desperate for contact, wants to call out for Sam to _come back right now_.

But then Sam _is_ back, skin burning hot, chest flush against his spine, the long line of him heavy with tense muscle. “I’m gonna fuck you raw,” Sam's voice is the engine of the Impala in his ear, a deadly purr that shakes him as it rumbles out of Sam’s chest. There’s a thick, blunt pressure at his hole, pushing in slow, experimental and teasing. Dean circles his hips against it, thrilling at the knowledge that Sam’s cock is _right there_ , so close to fucking him.

“Ask me, Dean.” Sam's voice is so soft Dean could almost be imagining it. “Ask for what you want.”

Dean drags one of his hands over his face, tears and sweat mixing and stinging in his eyes. “God. _Ah,_ God.” The head of Sam’s cock is a constant heat against him—he pushes it inside an infuriating fraction, then back out just as fast, over and over in a cycle of torture that breaks Dean apart beneath him until he can’t stand it anymore. “Please,” he begs. “You’ve gotta fuck me. _Please_. I’m dying.”

Sam’s answering growl is like nothing he’s ever heard, more animal than man, and he pushes all the way in in one smooth, delicious slide, all the way to the base until his hips are tucked tight against the meat of Dean’s ass and Dean’s entire world goes up in a shower of sparks and everything turns sideways.

Sam fucks him like he means it, pace intense, a jackhammer of expertly honed muscle. He keeps whispering filthy words into Dean’s ear, and Dean keeps keening against the pillow, fucked wide open and delirious with pleasure and the sound of his own name on his brother’s lips.

Sam’s pace changes—long, agonizing drags out, lighting Dean up like a lightbulb every time he slams back in. “I’m gonna come for you,” he says, tongue hot, licking into the exposed corner of Dean’s panting mouth, messy and imperfect. “Gonna fill you up with it.” He drags back out until just the head is holding Dean open, his body a broken, pliant mess of nerves and desire. “Are you gonna come for me, Dean?” But he can only whimper in response, his cock throbbing. _Soon_.

Sam gets a strong arm under him and hauls him up, tilts Dean's boneless body back until both of their weights are supported by Sam’s thighs. Dean is kneeling, legs spread wide on either side of Sam, sitting in his lap, impaled by the hard length of his brother’s cock. “I wanna watch,” Sam growls against his neck. With his free hand, he grabs Dean so hard by the hip that it’ll leave a bruise, and he picks up the pace again, the hard slap of skin against skin a brutal and perfect accompaniment to Dean’s broken little gasps.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean cries out, and he’s shooting off all over the coverlet, long streaks of come pumping from him and dragging out a ragged, exultant sigh.

“Yeah, baby,” Sam says, voice soft with his praise. “So fucking good.” He gets his arm up to Dean’s chest, takes hold of the amulet again. Dean’s ass is clenching around Sam with the last waves of his orgasm, and the sight is like the hot shock of an exposed nerve.

Sam rocks into him in one last punishing slide, coming hot and deep into the molten center of Dean’s body.

In his delirium, feeling the convulsions of Sam’s cock as he empties himself inside him, Dean thinks almost absently that if it were possible, he would be pregnant now. His brother would have knocked him up. He lets out a single, unhinged bark of laughter.

Sam rests his head between Dean’s shoulder blades, hair drenched in sweat. He breathes against Dean’s skin, plants a soft kiss there, and then lets Dean tip forward, limp and sated, to lay on the bed, no thought to the mess under their bodies. 

Dean makes a small, choked sob as Sam slides out of him, feels the slow, warm trickle of come leak down his thigh, but then Sam’s hand is there, sliding his fingers through it and pushing it back in, back where it _belongs_. They both seem to know it; there’s an odd current of understanding that passes unsaid between them. He’s gentle, fingers soft at Dean’s hole, still fucked out and pliant. “Gotta keep it, baby,” Sam whispers, and there’s an edge of incredulity in his voice like he can hear what he’s saying for the first time, how crazy he sounds.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, buzzing and more than a little stoned, half-crazy himself. “Wanna keep it all for you.” 

“ _Mmm_ ,” Sam hums, shifting up the bed. His fingers still inside Dean, not moving, just a warm and solid presence at the base of his spine. Dean revels in the way it feels, safe and whole. Sam’s face is near his now; they stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment, both blushing, feeling the comedown and trying to make sense of it. 

This time, he’s the first to break the silence. “This is weird,” he says. 

Sam's eyebrows crease in concern.“Yeah,” he agrees.

Dean’s too tired to lift his head, but he licks his lips, smiles. “I’ve gotten used to weirder.”

And then Sam is smiling, too, and _oh, God_ , he feels himself getting hard again at the sight of those stupid fucking dimples. His eyes scan over Sam’s body—long and powerful, so vast, so beautiful—and finds his own interest returned in the thickening line of Sam’s cock. 

“This is gonna be a long night,” he says, as Sam leans over to kiss him.

“Mmm,” his brother agrees, tongue already inside his mouth again. 

They fuck four more times over the course of the night; at some point, Dean remarks that _this_ is the kind of all-you-can-eat love buffet a man can truly appreciate, and Sam only snorts once before nipping at his ear and pretending he did not just hear him say that.

Finally, somewhere around five in the morning, tiredness beats out horniness, and they fall asleep tangled in each other’s arms—sweaty, filthy, and sated.

They don’t wake again until the sun is low in the sky and the moon is already a hazy shimmer in the distance. 

Dean rubs his hands over his face, beard scratchy, lips feeling swollen and bruised. As his faculties return, he realizes that, actually _, most_ of him feels bruised. He sits up in the bed, pivots until his feet are on the floor, and rests his hands heavily on his knees. He can’t bring himself to turn towards Sam as he hears his brother stir behind him. Instead, he looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table and swears.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is low and scratchy, an absolute wreck. He clears his throat and tries again. “Everything okay?”

Dean thinks it’s a stupid question, considering, but he arranges his features into a neutral expression before he forces himself to turn and face Sam. He’s a tangle of brown hair and sleep-warm skin under the sheets; it makes Dean’s heart stutter in his chest. “It’s late,” he says, gesturing to the clock. 

Now it’s Sam’s turn to sit up. “Shit,” he says. “Do you think she--”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe. Not like any babies are getting eaten tonight, anyway.” He feels his nakedness far more acutely than he did last night—the magic must be totally out of their systems at this point. He bends over the side of the bed and drags his jeans up his legs, ignoring the sticky feeling as he pulls them over his ass and does up the fly. He can feel Sam’s body shift as he does the same thing, grabbing his pants from a pile of discarded clothes on the floor. 

Neither of them seems ready to acknowledge what went on between them last night, even as their bodies are covered in marks and smeared in the evidence of it.

Dean stands and gingerly makes his way to the bathroom. He showers, ignoring as best he can the deep ache between his legs. He keeps expecting a panic to overwhelm him, but it never comes.

When he steps out of the bathroom ten minutes later, Sam is right where he left him, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking lost. His head swivels to Dean as he comes back into the room, and he says, “Dean-”

Dean puts up a hand. “Stop, Sam,” he says. “It’s fine. We don’t need to-”

But Sam doesn’t seem to want to hear this response, because he’s up, crossing to Dean, taking his face between his hands, and kissing him in the span of eight words. It’s a firm, confident thing, and Dean thinks it feels exactly like it should: good, and safe, and _Sam_. 

“I don’t want to pretend it didn't happen,” Sam says, voice solid, and his eyes shine with an emotion Dean cannot name even though he feels it, too.

So he takes a shaky breath in, blinks slow, blows it out again. “Yeah, Sammy,” he says. “Yeah, okay. We won’t.” And he lets Sam kiss him again before they break apart and Sam takes his turn in the shower.

Dean checks his phone while Sam is getting changed, and there’s a text from a number he doesn’t recognize:

“ _Happy Valentine’s, boys! Work out all that sexual tension? ;) Don’t bother trying 2 find me. I’m long gone. There are plenty of failing rust belt towns out there looking for a little love. Ciao, babes!_ ”

“Son of a bitch,” he growls, and Sam comes to read the message over his shoulder. The feeling of his brother so close against him is exactly right.

“How’d she get my number?” he asks.

"We signed in on the sheet at the speed dating thing with it, didn't we?" Sam asks. His breath is a warm huff on Dean’s cheek. He shivers a little, and Sam chuckles, low and sweet, before going to his duffle to finish changing. 

Dean is sliding his socks on when Sam asks, "Should we go after her?"

He debates for a second, thinks about how easy it would be to end up caught with their pants around their ankles again, metaphorically _and_ literally. "Let's hand this one over to Bobby, huh?" 

Sam’s grin is easy and knowing. “Yeah,” he laughs. “Probably for the best.”

Dean finishes lacing up his boots and stretches against the counter of the little kitchenette. His eyes catch on a brightly colored pamphlet on the formica and he reaches over to pick it up.

He bites his lip, grinning. "You hungry?" he asks, still looking down at the ad. "Diner down the street’s got the state’s best cherry pie, apparently." He holds the pamphlet up for Sam to see. There’s a bright cartoon slice of pie on the front, framed all around by little hearts. He looks meaningfully at Sam. "Valentine's special. Couples get two slices for the price of one."

Sam looks serious for a minute. Then the corner of his mouth turns up, and he shrugs. "I could eat.”

  
❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤  
  



End file.
